Foundations
by typicalhigh
Summary: “You do know what fun is, right?” Gibbs, Abby, and a shared Christmas. Written for ncistinsel on LiveJournal.


Foundations 

typicalhigh

When Abby finds Gibbs seated in the middle of the dim, electric glow of his desk lamp and surrounded by mountains of what is presumably paperwork, she's not entirely surprised. She's slightly annoyed though, but that might have something to do with the fact it's exactly three minutes to midnight on Christmas Eve, and raining too: her hair is completely soaked and it's cold and she _really_ wants to get back home to her heater and her DVD player for a couple of particularly grisly episodes of CSI. It was always entertaining, poking fun at the totally inaccurate forensics on the show, but there was a more pressing issue at hand, and that was the federal agent still in his office on Christmas morning.

"Gibbs!" she yelps, standing in the doorway. He raises his head, looking at her questioningly. "What are you still doing here? Do you not have a clock or something?"

He raises his eyebrows. "Could ask you the same thing."

She shrugs, her frustration slipping into the way she's carrying herself, her arms crossed and glare steady. "I forgot something." She doesn't specify what. Gibbs is finding it hard not to grin at the way her hands move to her hips, glaring at him, unconscious of the way her stare mimicks those of his last two ex-wives.

"Anyway, it doesn't matter because you're here and I'm pretty sure you don't realise it's—" she pauses to look at her watch "—well, _almost_ Christmas. You should be at home, Gibbs!"

He taps his pen on the table. "Should I, Abby?" he asks. Abby notices he's wearing that classic 'I'm-amused-but-I'm-hiding-it-well' expression she's getting used to – to him, it's an unfortunate side-effect of working with his team. She stamps her foot against the ground, and it echoes through the quiet offices.

"Yes, you should." Her voice is full of her typical conviction.

"I'll keep that in mind, then," he says, the smile almost reaching into his voice, then looks back down at his work.

Before he can protest, though, Abby has grabbed his sleeve, and is dragging him out of his chair with force that seems strangely suited to her, even considering her size relative to him. He glares at her, knowing full well that he can't hit Abby, because hitting Abby would be _wrong._

"Come on," she says brightly, letting go of his sleeve and taking his hand in hers, instead. "I'm taking you out."

Starbucks, much to the dismay of Gibbs and delight of Abby, is closed at this hour, but she navigates them to a small, all-night diner ten minutes away from the NCIS offices with ease, even in the heavy winter rain.

In a booth together, sitting across from each other, Abby is in the process of slowly but surely consuming the entire pizza that they've ordered together, while reading the newspaper somebody has left before them, and Gibbs is staring morosely into his second cup of coffee. The place is decked out in full Christmas regalia – cheap tinsel and a plastic Christmas tree decorate the small and dimly-lit diner, and there are tinny Christmas carols playing in the background somewhere. The guy who served them – Phil, from the nametag – had looked ready to pull Abby's head off as she skipped in perkily, dragging Gibbs behind her.

Gibbs can sympathise, sometimes.

The mood is so utterly unfestive that Abby has to comment on it, easing another slice of pizza away from the plate between them. "And this pizza," she continues, through a mouthful of cheese and ham and god-knows-what-else— "isn't fantastic, Gibbs, it _sucks._"

Gibbs watches her chew and swallow for a second, taking another sip from his coffee. "Well, figures. Have you had a look around at this place?"

Abby leans back in her seat, patting her stomach and sighing a happy sigh. "I gotta say it, Gibbs, despite the substandard food and not-quite-what-I'd-call-romantic setting? It's a nice date so far. You sure know how to make a forensic scientist feel special." She pauses. "I mean, despite the fact I had to drag you here. But I'm willing to ignore that if you are."

He raises an eyebrow. "Who said anything about a date?"

She grins, ignoring him, and continues. "I suppose we look kind of weird together, though. I mean, you're awesome and fairly good-looking, considering your age—" Gibbs rolled his eyes at that "—but you're like, forty million years old or something and I'm just black-wearing tattoo-adorned Abby. Visually, maybe not the best couple."

"Abs," Gibbs begins. "You should lay off the caffeine for awhile."

"As if you can talk." She grabs the newspaper again, and flips through the pages frantically. Gibbs watches her still slightly greasy fingers, wondering what the hell she's looking for.

"Look!" she exclaims, stabbing her finger at the page she's settled on. _Your Stars with Arthur Bowman, _reads Gibbs to himself, then looks up at her again questioningly.

"I'm a Sagittarius," Abby tells him, then begins reading her horoscope out loud. "_Your Christmas day probably won't be the most conventional one you've had, with a retrograde Mars passing through your sign set to shake things up, but Venus passing through your sign will ensure it'll be quality time spent with ones you truly love_," she narrates, enjoying the way Gibbs' incredibly sceptical looks as she does. "See? It's fate!"

"I thought you were a scientist," he says,

"Well, yeah, there's that. But you have to admit, they're kinda cool. They're _fun_." Abby tilts her head and narrows her eyes, staring at him. He was so completely uptight most of the time; she couldn't help teasing him a little. "Wait— you _do_ know what fun is, right?"

He rolls his eyes.

Outside, after an hour and a half of more bad coffee and a conversation that managed to change topic from classical literature to BDSM to life as a Marine (and everywhere in between), Gibbs is standing underneath a bus shelter with his final cup of coffee and a frown, watching the late-night traffic flash by. He glances at his watch, and idly wonders how the time could have slipped away from him so quickly. Abby pays for the food and wanders out of the diner, and comes to stand next to him.

"You know what's weird?" she says, fiddling with the buckle on the collar around her neck. "You've had four cups of coffee in the past hour, but you haven't gone to the toilet at all." She pauses, thinking. "Come to think of it, I've never really seen you go to the toilet at _all._ You got a cast-iron bladder or something?"

He can't help it: he glances off to one side and begins to laugh quietly. This whole night has been completely nuts, but Abby's strange company has been— well, it's been better than staying at home, getting drunk and working on his boat.

"Merry Christmas, Abs," he says, putting an arm around her damp shoulders.


End file.
